


Half Baked

by FlatlandDan



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Kitchen AU, Multi, Sexual Content, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlatlandDan/pseuds/FlatlandDan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Kitchen AU in which people (mostly Clint) try, fail, try again and eventually end up making the perfect dish for the perfect person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With the utmost thanks and respect to Anthony Bourdain, author of the book "Kitchen Confidential" on which I based some of the name and experiences. The rest, for good or evil, are memories of my own time serving on the line.
> 
> Updated every Saturday. And no, I'm not going to tell you who the characters end up with in the end ;)

Sometimes Clint likes to think about the good old days at the Culinary Institute of America.  He can call them the good old days because he’s out of the CIA and the memories of working in the Escoffier Room with Chef Bernard screaming at him over the dimensions of his gnocchi have faded.  It’s been four years and all he can remember now is sitting in Hyde Park with Tasha, Phil, Nick, three bottles of cooking wine, some ruined profiteroles and someone saying  _fuck the man, let’s start our own place._

He’s pretty sure it had been Nick.

They had graduated in the spring of 1992 thinking they knew everything.  By the fall of ’93 Clint realised he knew absolutely nothing except how to score dope in alphabet city and turn half an apple into a swan.  Nick is the easiest to keep track of, his career goes stratospheric within two years and he brings Phil with him to work at Moderna.  They do good work, putting out 250 covers a night of perfect food that makes Clint weep when he sees the photographs of it in a Sunday supplement.  Tasha goes to Europe, literally into the belly of the beast and works for nothing in Paris, Budapest, London, Rome and finally Moscow.  She sends postcards to him that wind their way through the hands of various New York chefs until they reach his.  He thinks she must be sending them to any restaurant she knows a mutual acquaintance works at.  _You should come to Europe…it will do you good to get away from New York._ He never answers, never wonders how she keeps track of him and what he’s doing.  He’s working random shifts at Stage Restaurant, the owner is a cop who doesn’t care what he cooks as long he doesn’t skim more then $7.50 an hour from the till, stays until either 9 pm or he gets back, and leaves when he walks in the door.  He knows what Clint is, but who the hell else would work a shift pattern that is the opposite of a homicide detective? That job ends suddenly when Clint shows up for a shift and finds the place crawling with cops, bullet broken glass on the sidewalk.  He decides it’s not worth finding out if his boss wants him to stick around.

He meets Tony Stark at the Kentucky Bar and Grill, a dying place that’s gone through four chefs and six menu changes in the last two months.  They hit it off right away, making a game out of seeing how far they can take things before one of them gets fired, even starting up a pool.  They drink on the line, deep fry steaks when ordered well done, substitute Smash for the creamy mashed potatoes and put Tater Tots on as an appetizer special.  He gets handed a postcard from Tasha one night as he’s lying on a bag of flour, a badly rolled spliff in his hand.  She’s in Moscow and is worried about him.  Tony is one bag of flour over being violently ill into a bucket.  Clint’s worried about them both.

The Ecuadorian pot wash, Julio, wins the pool by being the only person to correctly bet that they both get fired at the same time.  It’s almost worth getting tossed on the street to see his face at the bar afterwards, grinning ear to ear as he shakes their hands and thanks them.  His children will have a good Christmas.

Tony has a place and the remains of a trust fund so they hole up there, printing off resumes and watching re-runs of Dallas.  He can’t afford drugs anymore and Tony has moved on to heroin, which he guards in a completely paranoid but utterly predicable manner.  Clint makes them shitty omelettes twice a day for a week before his hands stop shaking and he feels he can use knives again.  Two weeks later Tony has built a fucking laser to defend his stash so he walks to the payphone down the street.  He found the phone number on a letter, a letter he would have been heartbroken to get himself that speaks of a home to come back to and people who will help him get straightened out. He reaches man named Jarvis, gives him the address and hopes that he gets Tony will get the help he needs.  There is no one to help him, nothing else he can do except seek salvation vicariously through Tony now.  He keeps walking until he finds a mission and sleeps until they kick him out.

***

It’s the summer of 1996, he had a cell phone that will only accept incoming calls, pan handles for money to print out resumes from the library and sleeps under a bridge.  People take one look at him when he walks in the door and smile politely through the interview when he glosses over the last three years of his career.  They tell him they’ll call.  No one ever does.

Except Phil. 

They met once, completely by accident, when Clint was working as a day labourer at the Green market.  He’s there with a chef who’s talking animatedly about the things he can do with these vine tomatoes when he catches Clint’s eye and smiles, buys a couple of boxes of the overpriced fruit and asks if he can borrow Clint to carry it back to the restaurant.  He shoves $100 in the chef’s hand, reminds him that he needs itemised bills or his balls be the Saturday special, and they leave.

Moderna is every bit as beautiful as Clint thought it would be.   Seating for 40, beautiful dark wood floors, pales wood tables, dark red ceiling, stunning lighting that throws shadows on the wall and a bar that runs the whole was down the back.  He aches to see the kitchen, but Phil makes them both coffee and they sit at the bar

“You’re clean.” It’s not a question, just a pleasant statement from Phil as he stirs a lump of brown sugar into his coffee.  Clint is clean, has been since he lived with Tony, but he’s not sure what to say so he just nods.  “I’m glad.”

“This place is beautiful.”  It’s the first thing that pops into his mind.  He doesn’t want to talk about himself, not somewhere like this, and he intrinsically _knows_  that this is a place that Phil has slowly designed.  He had been in the maître’d course as opposed to the catering side, but it had been easy to see he was management material.  Phil didn’t want to just know the front of house side, he wanted to know about the kitchen and that had ingratiated him to them from the start.  By the end of the year he knew every recipe they had learned by portion down to the gram.  Phil didn’t want to cook, but he damn well wanted to understand how much a meal cost to make.

“Thanks.  We got lucky.”

“Stop being self-deprecating, you worked hard for this.  Four years at the same place? I’m surprised you don’t own it.” Phil laughs and shakes his head, but can’t stop his eyes from fondly taking in the surroundings.

“Some day, maybe.  Listen, Clint, we don’t have any work right now.  But if you want I can pass your name around, see if someone needs a line chef.” There was a time when Clint would have thrown his coffee in Phil’s face for this, but now he’s surprisingly grateful.  He writes his number in a little black book, a red A embossed on the cover, and the conversation moves on to other topics.  Clint spends the entire afternoon drinking coffee, talking shop and trading rumours with Phil.  He knows he’s probably lost his job, but he wouldn’t trade the sense of comfort it brings him for a crappy job loading trucks.  When he leaves Phil presses $200 into his hand.

“I can’t take this.”

“Sure you can, just think of it as a days pay in advance.”

Clint uses it for a hair cut, new clothes, shoes and a shaving kit.  When Phil calls him a week later to say that Pino needs someone to dunk pasta at his new place and can Clint get there in an hour, he’s ready.  It’s taken four years, but he’s ready.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s busted back down to commis, working a split shift on Monday/Tuesday, days Wednesday to Saturday prep and brunch on Sunday.  It’s possibly the worst shift pattern he’s seen, which is saying something since he worked at Stage.  The work is mind numbing, sitting on an overturned bucket peeling prawns for three hours, cutting shallots into perfect little cubes for the asshole of a sous chef, helping someone feed yeast to one of the many evil looking tubs the baker leaves around.  They treat him like shit, which he expects, but no one tries to stab him.  After three weeks when Alex the saucier hits him with a frying pan Clint believes him when he says he was genuinely aiming for the sink and not his commis head.  The head chef takes one look at the sheepish Alex and one look at Clint, swaying a little with his head wrapped in three dish clothes to stem the blood and waves them off.

When Alex buys him a Bloody Mary and asks how he’d like to stay on his section in a more permanent fashion, Clint is coherent enough to say yes.  He doesn’t get to cook except at the end of a night when the line is quiet and one annoying last order arrives and Sunday brunch.  He kicks ass at Sunday brunch, when the rest of the chefs come in with hangovers and spend most of their time in the bathrooms. He never drinks with them, except a few free drinks after his evening shift, citing saving up for a deposit of a place.  The memories of Tony are still too fresh and he can’t quite shake the feeling that deep down he’s still an addict.  He wrote _Remember Tony_ on the inside of his knife roll the morning he started this job.  It’s the first thing he sees when he opens it and the last thing he sees when he closes it and fuck it, when someone asks him if he has to write down his boyfriends name to remember who he’s sleeping with he replies _yup, you wanna join us?_ Everyone laughs and no one mentions Tony again.  It’s what he loves about kitchens.  No one cares who you’re sleeping with, they just care you can hold down your station on a busy night.

So brunch becomes his little domain after a few weeks.  He’s ridiculously overqualified to cook it, thanks to a reasonably long (for him) stint working for IHOP.  It’s a quiet shift because everyone, literally everyone, comes in for the baked goods and he enjoys having the kitchen mostly to himself.  There are only five brunch dishes and mostly he just poaches eggs, toasts baguettes and puts the gorgeous croissants, pain au chocolate and muffins into cute baskets.

At the end of his first Sunday shift he’d witnessed his first real show of aggression at the place, the moment when the manager had come in an announced they were closed for service and everyone had fallen on the leftover baked goods.  He had managed to grab a mostly untouched croissant in the melee and had made a tactical retreat to the alley.  He’d forgo the free coffee to see if this is as good as he thinks it will be.  He’d learned the basic principles of how to make a croissant, the time and patience required to roll each layer perfectly eluded him though.  Most places bought par baked stuff, but not here.  Here they had, as far as Clint could tell, a magician who put perfect bread on every table at night and perfect pastries on Sunday morning.

Clint’s never met the baker, but after that first bite he’s in love.  It’s a frosty March and he’s leaning against the wall, hidden by the dumpster that helps make a little suntrap in the early afternoon.  The outside has a perfect flaky crunch, the inside soft and buttery.  When he finishes it he sighs involuntarily because yeah, that was pretty much the best baked good he’s ever had. 

The baker works from 2 am, after the kitchen porters have finished cleaning, to 8:30 am, exactly half an hour before the prep team gets in.  No one has ever met him, and he communicates through post it notes on various containers and letters written in the managers notebook that’s kept behind the bar. Clint revises his description of magician and substitutes ghost.   It takes him a few days to find an excuse to look, but a sneaky glance at the notebook reveals a last name carefully printed at the end of a list of what breads are available and what needs to be ordered for the next day.

Banner.

His counterpart goes on a three day coke bender after a month, Clint gets promoted to the prime time shifts and suddenly finding out more about the baker becomes priority zero.  He has twenty new sauces to learn and Alex, once his friend, is now sure that Clint is after his job and refuses to show him most of them.  Which he is.  Clint’s reduced to bribing the pot wash to scrape samples of each into ramkins and trying to reverse engineer what goes into each.  He watches Alex like a hawk when he can, but the guy is smart and mostly makes Clint keep his miz stocked and whisking sauces that might break.

He keeps brunch and tells himself that it’ll pay for him to have one bedroom and not a studio.  One more week and he’ll have enough to stop couch surfing, the idea of which he’s finding exciting and adult as opposed to confining.

“ That’s because you’ve finally caught up to the rest of us” Phil tells him. He’s at Moderna, sitting in Phil’s basement office sharing the remains of Banner’s work on a late Sunday afternoon.  He’s notionally there to look at the newspaper, apartment hunting for the first time in years, but really he just finds the sound of Phil doing paperwork soothing.  Phil swears a lot under his breath, spends hours filling in spreadsheets and order forms and has a coffee pot under his desk.

“God, who’s Pino got baking for him?  Do you think we could steal him?” Phil’s in love with Banner’s baking just as much as he is.  Clint’s not actually sure he could get in the door without a brown paper bag filled with leftovers.

“Never met the person, he works nights after the porters are done.  Banner. A guy, I think.”

“Bruce Banner?” The paperwork stops and Phil’s attention transfers entirely onto Clint.  His eyes narrow and he takes another bite of brioche, as if to test his theory.

“Possible.  Do you know anything about him?” Phil nods.

“Baking genius, holds down a job worse then you do, doesn’t work well with others.  Pino is doing the right thing keeping him away from people, though the man does excellent desserts as well. You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry.”

“Sounds like my kind of guy”

“I thought we’d decided you don’t get to pick your friends anymore.”

“If anyone else said that to me I’d fucking shank them, you know that Phil?” The room stills a little, and they both know lines have been stepped over. Clint knows better then to threaten Phil, especially in his own house, and Phil has intrinsically known to not mention the Tony Years. 

“He likes camomile tea.”

“What?”

“Banner.  You’d probably get bonus points for that crazy Japanese flower tea with the unfolding blossoms, but I can’t confirm that.”

Clint smiles, Phil sighs and they carry on. He’s not sure if Nick knows he’s there, not sure if Nick is even acknowledging he’s alive, but Phil swears he’s not getting in trouble for him ( _seriously Clint, he’s not my mother)_ so he’s been coming here for the last three weeks after brunch.  He normally stays until 6pm, when the first rush of pre-theatre starts, but today he lingers over the paper.

“I’ll fuck off now, if you want?” he says, noticing Phil reach for his suit jacket.  Phil waves him off as he straightens the collar and hand over his scapbook of other restaurant reviews. They date back about five years and Phil is insistent that Clint needs to read them to get caught up.  Clint does, but only because Phil has written snarky little remarks in the margins, circled names of chefs to watch out for, highlighted names of dishes that sound good and just generally been _Phil_ all over the page.

“Nah, stay.  Read the review of Hydra though, it’s the funniest thing I’ve read all week.  I’ll send down a cheeseburger.”

Phil does send down a cheeseburger, at exactly 7:30, which is why Clint is still in the building when a porter shoves open the door.

“Ahhh, they need you upstairs.”

“Fuck off kid, I don’t work here.”

“No. No.  You’re Mr. Coulson’s friend?  They need you.  Fury fired a guy and he, like, stabbed him in the eye.”

Clint pushes past the kid and takes the steep staircase steps two by two.  He calmly walks through exposed bar area (customers are oblivious), hisses _get back to fucking work_ at the bar staff peering through the kitchen window, goes out the back through the fire exit, down the alley and in through the back door. 

One look at the kitchen and he knows it’s every bit as bad as it could be.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in the saddle, baby...

The first thing he sees is Nick, blood down the front of his white jacket, a stack of red towels pressed against half his head. He looks like he’s about to get up but Phil is there, holding him against the fridge door, phone against his pale face. Clint’s never seen them like this, so out of control of a situation, and that upsets him more then the blood. He takes a step towards them, but stops. There isn’t a damn thing he can do for Nick that Phil isn’t already. Apply pressure, call an ambulance. He blocks them out, the horrific sight in front of him, and looks for something he can control. He sees is a blond giant sitting on a man, the man who probably did this, amidst a confused kitchen crew. They’re mostly milling around, but some of the idiot bastards are trying to get food out. He catches Nick’s eye and nods, catches Phil’s and exhales the breath he’s been holding. On the next inhale he’s in charge of this mess.

“Everyone shut the fuck up.” He bellows and is actually amazed they all listen. But they’re a ship without a captain and despite the fact they don’t know him they knew what he represents: a person they can blame for what happens next. The problem is he doesn’t know what to do next. Doesn’t know what Nick would want because he hasn’t talked to him in years. He spares a second for the last time they two of them talked and he finds it a hazy Tony Days memory, of Nick looking down at him lying on something hard and shaking his head. Clint doesn’t remember the words, but his memory tells him it something about doing the right thing being hard. 

“Everyone put down your knives and stop. The kitchen is shut. Could someone quietly bring me someone from front of house, someone senior.”

“Are we through here for the night, man? Can we get changed?”

“This is a crime scene, Shithead. Everyone stays until the police arrives.” Phil still has the phone mashed against his face but he spares Clint a glance and he knows he’s made the right decision. A waitress appears in front of him, and he quietly tells her to say there has been a serious accident in the kitchen, make apologies, take re-bookings and get everyone out. Despite only knowing her for a few seconds, Clint likes her. She doesn’t stare at Nick, doesn’t make stupid emotional noises, just notes down what he says in her jot pad and asks him if he’ll initial every point and sign the bottom. He makes a note of the name Maria written on the cover of her pad. Phil has trained her well.

He turns his attention to the men on the floor.

“I don’t know you.” Clint it quietly pleased that the blond giant asks him that question, his eyes narrowed and his hand gently flexing on the handle of a giant meat tenderizer. 

“I’m a friend of Phil’s, of Nick’s as well. I just want to make sure he’s still breathing before the cops get here, in case we should...” Dispose of the body? Come up with the story about who killed him? Pick a fall guy? Fucking hell, Clint isn’t even sure of how far he’d go for these people. 

“He is alive, friend of Phil and possibly of Nick. I smoted him only slightly with the hammer.” Clint lets the words roll through his head a couple of times before simply chalking the whole thing up to the guy being from Europe and giggling slightly hysterically to himself.

“Clint. My name is Clint.”

“Thor Odinson. I would shake your hand, but I am concerned about the blood on it.” Clint notices the blood then, covering the hands.

“Is it his?”

“No. I was butchering the fresh cattle when this fiend attempted to kill Nick Fury. The blood will mostly be that for the beasts, but I am concerned that some might belong to...him.”

“Who is he?”

“The new kitchen porter. I do not know his name.”

Clint nods and gently reaches down to feel the pulse in the man’s neck. He doesn’t doubt that Thor knows what he’s talking about, but he needs to feel this for himself. Through one door he can hear the sound of customers complaining, though thankfully that sound is quickly drowned out by the one he wants to hear: an ambulance wail moving ever closer. Clint takes Thor’s hand and places it on a pulse point.

“Sit on him till the cops get here. Let me know if he stops breathing.” Thor nods and Clint picks his way through the broken dishes on the floor, the produce scattered, the clear signs of the fight, and crouches down next to Phil and Nick. Nick has his eye shut and Phil is still applying pressure and talking softly. 

“I really think we should go back to using the rabbit for the ragu. It’s a much earthier taste and Union Cafe is going to make a move on the dish if we don’t start using it again.” Clint wonders if maybe Phil has lost his mind. If maybe that giant meat hammer hit him on the head as well. These guys, these guys don’t go crazy over stuff like this. Phil once stitched Clint’s hand up after a nasty cut in the middle of service, wrapping the whole thing in duct tape until the night was done. The only worrying thing about the conversation is that Nick hasn’t risen to the bait. There is real concern in Phil’s eyes now and he looks like he’s about to take other measures when Nick lick his lips.

“Fuck those fuckers. They couldn’t make a ragu as good as mine if the Easter bunny hopped in pot for them.”

“You won’t be able to go with the ambulance,” he tells Phil matter of factly.

“I’ll tell them I’m family.” Even Nick laughs at that one, a wet tired laugh that seems to completely sum up the situation. The ambulance is getting closer and Clint thinks he can hear the police coming through the front. 

“I’m useless at controlling these people once the cops get here. They’re going to want to know what happened and I wasn’t around. Do you want them to have to hear 20 different stories or the one you want them to hear?” Phil’s eyes shut for a second, but open with a new resolve. 

“Don’t you dare die, you bastard.” He tells Nick as the police come through the kitchen door. Clint moves out of the way as they are swarmed, joined a minute later by Phil. He stands mutely by Phil’s side as the police get the story, the paramedics arrive and leave (barely a second for Phil to run over and gently poke Nick in the shoulder, a reminder of a promise implied) and then, finally, they take one Hans Errikson into custody and ask everyone else to remain available. The restaurant is a crime scene for the next 24 hours, at least, and so they both walk into the alley.

“They’ve taken him to NYP-EMS.” Clint begins, leaning against the wall and grabbing a cigarette. He normally wouldn’t smoke in front of Phil, wanting to maintain the illusion that he had gotten rid of all his vices in front of the man, but today he think he can make an exception. He’s barely surprised when Phil reaches over and steals one out of his pack.

“Did I call his mother?”

“I think so.”

“Fuck.” Phil slides down to sit on an overturned bucket, and Clint sits on the ground beside him. There isn’t much else they can say, and as the kitchen staff file past them Phil thanks them all for staying till the police arrived and tells them to come back the next day for their checks. Everyone knows this is the end of the line.


	4. Chapter 4

He stays unless the police tell Phil he can leave and then they just walk down Fifth Avenue until they hit Union Square and turn right. Clint doesn’t know where Phil lives anymore, but the subway runs all night and he doesn’t trust the city to take care of Phil tonight.  They’re well into Greenwich Village, Washington Square a deserted battle ground of late afternoon student drinking and homeless men sleeping on park benches, before Phil starts to talk.   
  
“You don’t have to walk me home.”   
  
“I do.”   
  
“I’m not an going to throw myself off a bridge, Barton.”   
  
“That what you say now.” Phil fixes him with a long hard stare, the kind that he uses to remind Clint he’s full of shit, but Clint won’t back down on this one.  He’s been here before, walked these same streets and even slept on the bench they’re coming up to.  He’s stood on top of abandoned tracks and watched the boats go past on the Hudson, wishing he was sober enough to tell if they were police boats that would save him or water taxis that would just let him sink.  He saw the expression on Phil’s face when he locked the back door and tonight he’ll repay a little of the debt he owes Phil for saving him, even if Phil doesn’t think he needs it.     
  
“Thanks for helping tonight, with damage control.  You didn’t need to.”   
  
“You’re my friends. I’d like to think I did.” They’re silent again, feet padding slowly down quiet streets until Phil leads them down an alley and up the fire escape of an old red-brick.  His studio apartment is everything that Clint expected it to be.  A comfortable couch in front of a plasma TV stood on milk crates, a small kitchen with a built in breakfast nook, a bookshelf overflowing with cookbooks and culinary related autobiographies, a double bed that looks so comfortable that Clint wants to fall into it.  Instead he stands in the middle of the room and watches Phil bring out a bottle of pinot noir and a couple of wine glasses.  They sink onto the couch, put their feet on couple more milk crates and Phil turns on the Cartoon Network.  It’s an old episode of  Spiderman and Clint thinks back to afternoons spent in the apartment they all shared duing the CIA days when they would hunt for cartoons on the terrestrial channels and eat food they had stolen during the day.  The bottle is going down quickly and he wonders if he should make a move now that Phil is safely home.  It’s nearly three am and he has to be in the kitchen by nine but one look to his left and he knows it’s not time to leave yet.  Phil is slumped against the cushions, his half closed eyes fixed on the television though Clint knows it’s not that he’s seeing.   
  
“You couldn’t have done anything”   
  
“I hired him.  A week ago.  Didn’t run a background check, just gave him a trial shift and was happy when he showed up for the next one.”   
  
“You know damn well you can’t run background checks any of us.  Probably half the dishwashers in this city are illegals and most of us have a criminal record.”   
  
“Well maybe I should fucking start.” Phil snaps at him, his head not leaving the cushion and his jaw clenching shut after his words. The words don’t sting and Clint barely blinks at them, but he knows Phil feels guilty the moment he finishes saying them.  Clint just huffs a little, refills their glasses and prods Phil with his foot.     
  
“Don’t be a dick.  Are you staying up all night or heading to bed?”   
  
“Shit Clint, you have to work tomorrow.  I’ll be up all night so go home or take the bed or something.”   
  
“If by something you mean watching more cartoons then sure.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, a crappy burner with a broken screen that he still never has any credit on, and sets the alarm for two hours from then.     
  
“Seriously, go to bed.  We don’t both have to lose our jobs tonight.”   
  
“I’ve set an alarm and you’re closer to my work anyhow.  Just stop worrying about everyone else for a bit and get some sleep.” They’re quite again, the cartoon changing over to  Inspector Gadget without either of them passing comment.  He thinks that Phil is asleep, is almost asleep himself, when Phil’s hand reaches out to touch the corded phone that snakes itself across the floor and to near his feet.  Touches, but doesn’t pick up.  They’re not family and the paramedics made it very clear the hospital wouldn’t give out any information to them.   
  
“I wish I could call.”   
  
“I wish you could too.”   
  
“He was really happy you were getting better, you know?  Really, really damn happy for you.  We all are.” Clint doesn’t know what to say to that.  He’s never been good with words, particularly those with emotions behind them, and suddenly this feels like a wake.   
  
“He’ll be fine.”    
  
Clint gets up and  shuffles his way to the kitchen,  fills to glasses with tap water.  They’re not drunk, not even close, but the day is starting to weigh him down and he hopes that Phil will be asleep by the time he gets back. He grabs pillows and blankets from the bed (it still looks like the most comfortable thing he’s seen in years) and in the few short minutes he’s gone he’s relieved to see his suspicions confirmed.  Phil’s eyes are shut, his breathing normal, the wine glass precariously balanced in his fingers.  It’s not really tucking him in, Clint tells himself as he drains the glass and shoves an assortment of pillows and blankets around his friend.  He pulls more blankets on top of himself and lets his socked feet rest against Phil’s thigh as builds a nest around them.  He shoves his phone between his head and the pillow, turns to volume down low so it might not wake Phil up, and lets the sounds of the 1960’s  Hercules  lull him to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are again. Apologies in order all around. This story has lurked on the back burner for far to long now (hahaha). It's been my favourite since I came up with it though and this summer is all about finishing my WIPs. I'll be posting a chapter every Saturday now, so keep your eyes peeled. 
> 
> Also, keep an eye out for changes to the tags.
> 
> Thanks to thefrogg for the beta read.

There are several ways to tell he isn’t at home. The smell of coffee, a stronger blend than he normally with probably enough coffee grounds used to make it actually taste like coffee and not coloured water. The blanket isn’t scratchy, he can’t feel the springs through the sofa and when he cracks open an eye Phil Coulson is sitting on the floor a few feet away, staring at him.

“Do you want bagels?”

“Jesus, Phil. What time is it?”

“5 am. We can get to Ess-a-bagel by 6 when they open and you can still get to work on time.”

“Why the hell do you want bagels?”

“Because breakfast in the most important meal of the day.” Phil’s eyes are a little glazed and he’s clutching his mug.

“Yeah, but I could sleep another two hours and just eat the leftovers that come back to the kitchen.” Phil wrinkles his nose at that, takes a disgusted slurp of his coffee and leans over to tug on the blanket. Clint tries to kick him in the head before he remembers the day before, the blood and the police and the Phil telling everyone to come back and pick up final paychecks today.

“What time you heading in?” He asks, sitting up and rolling his shoulder until it pops in a satisfying way.

“Have to wait for the police to call and say the scene is clear. Noon, I hope. I want to write paychecks people can cash before the investors get in.” Clint winces in sympathy. 

“You know, it might not be the end of the place.” Phil stares at him like he’s grown another head before padding over the kitchen, refiling his mug and grabbing another for Clint. By the time he’s back, Clint is acutely aware of how dumb that statement was. There is no Moderna without Nick. Some executive chefs write menus, swan through a place once a while, occasionally cook but mostly just comp meals to friends and reap the praise as the sweat rolls off the backs of the line. Not Nick though, Nick worked his line like an extension of himself. Nick could step into any station, at any time, and tell the person running it exactly what they were fucking up. Nick knew how many peppers they had left, how many portions of sea bass left to sell, that the grill man’s wife was cheating on him (before the grill man did) and that they had exactly eight starters, twenty-two mains and a maximum of thirty dessert orders to come in at 9:02 pm the Thursday before. Nick knew all this because Phil knew all this. They spent services feeding each other choice bits of information, pertinent stuff that helped each of them stay on top of the kitchen and front of house. 

They’re halfway down the fire escape before Clint even thinks to apologise. Phil smiles and huffs at that, sending little vapours into the air that mix with the steam coming off the manholes. It’s a cold morning and Clint is envious of Phil’s scarf as soon as they hit the street. A short walk later and they are standing in the line, a mix of housekeepers, students and Jewish ladies and older men waiting for six am and inhaling the divine smell wafting out.

“You should pick up some camomile tea on the way in.” Phil says as the sign swings over and they all press forward. “For Banner.”

“It can wait. I won’t get a chance to leave it until Saturday night.”

“But you’ll do it, right?” Phil persists, pausing only to rattle off an order for a half dozen poppy seed bagels, two right away with cream cheese when they get to the counter. They push their way outside and it only takes one bite for Clint to feel his stomach settle in a way he didn’t know it needed to. He’d had two glasses of wine, stress and no sleep the previous night. Pepto Bismol, he decides, has nothing on a slab of cheese between two perfect bits of carbs. 

They still have two hours before Clint even has to think about getting to work and Phil has thoughtfully placed them ten blocks north of it. It’s easy enough to meander to Stuyvesant Cove Park; this close to Alphabet City Clint still remembers all the short cuts. The sun knows the short cuts as well, and by 7 am it bursts through the haze and warms them as they look out over the East River. Phil is talking through his plan, his painful plan, about how to get the most money off the equipment, to ensure the local produce suppliers that they depended on got paid before the larger national companies. The coffee is long gone and Clint realises he hasn’t said anything in over an hour, just let Phil’s words wash over him. He’s slept in this park before, bundled up in everything he owned. Phil has mentioned how he’s going to save everyone but himself.

“So what are you going to do?” Clint asks him. Phil just fixes him with a look.

“You been listening to anything I said, Bird Brain? I know Mario is setting up a new place and will give me good money for the equipment...”

“No, what are you going to do? Where are you going work, Phil?” Phil pauses to consider, eyes still fixed on Clint, before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the same black notebook with the red A on it Clint had seen months before. He taps the cover with his index finger, a tell that only shows when his mind is working faster than he can process the ideas, his finger dispersing the ones he’s rejected.

“We had an idea. Moderna was the trial run. We want to create something bigger, better, something legendary, something that brings together everything this city is and needs into one group. Kept saying we’d hold out for one more year, squirrel a bit more money away, but I think what happened last night was a sign. It’s a sign that the good people need to work together to keep things like that out of our kitchens. Espionage? Attempted murders? Stealing orders of rival kitchens off trucks? We’re better than that. This book?” Phil taps more vigorously. “It’s everything we ever dreamed of.”

“Everything we ever dreamed of?”

“Everything.” Clint nods along. His name, his contract details are in that book, but when he dreams it’s of disappointment. He dreamed about his parents, his brother, his social services officer, Tony and the look on faces of friends he once had. “We put together a team.” Phil finishes softly.

Phil opens the book, hands it to Clint, and there is a list of names.. Tasha is back, that kid Rogers that everyone is talking about, Odinson, Banner, a blank space next to sous chef and his own next to saucier. Nick is executive, Phil is front of house...they’ve brought Maria with him. 

“This is a very unproven team. Volatile. I don’t know.” Phil hums knowingly at his words.

“I know. And Nick knows.”

“Nick might die.” They’ve been dancing around that all morning, around the phone in Phil’s studio that will at some point ring with news.

“Then we’ll be damn sure to avenge him if he does.”


	6. Chapter 6

Clint likes being early, likes the feel of being the first person in. It lets him center himself before things get too much, too hectic, and he finds himself falling into bad habits again. It’s 9 am, he doesn’t start till 10, but the lovely Darcy is the waitress this morning and it’s easy for him to accept another cup of coffee and exchange smiles with her. Darcy Lewis, self described as majoring in Getting-Rent-Money and minoring in Political Science. Clint likes her a lot, likes the way she’s efficient at most things without having the training to be.

“We have 20 booked for lunch, mostly two’s and three’s.” She’s chewing on the end of her pen as she looks at the bookings, glasses sliding a little down her nose.

“Lots of room for walk ins.” He slurps his coffee and looks at the kitchen door and the clock, wondering if he should take the initiative and make another batch of soup.

“Yeah. But it’s brass monkey’s out there so we’re not going to get a lot of takeaway orders. Soup though?” 

“Soup.” Clint says with a nod, pushing himself up and heading downstairs to change. It’s a dingy basement space, more suited to illegal bare knuckle fighting than a changing room, but Clint likes that that the lockers are big enough for you to put whatever you want in them and a padlock on them It’s safe for him to leave his knives here, at least he thinks it is. Doesn’t stop him from running his fingers down his knife roll every night and saying a little prayer. This morning, like every other one, his locker is undisturbed. There is a note shoved in from Franko, the head chef, reminding him to remind the prep team to do extra shallots. Another from Alex saying that the roux he made last Thursday was lumpy and he’d better not fucking do it again or he’s out. The last one is a green post it that simply says: Take bread out at 9:30. Par-baked cooling. -B

Clint takes several things from these notes: Franko is trusting him with more responsibility, Alex’s paranoia is getting on his nerves, Bruce Banner knows that he comes in early. He’s humming a little to himself as he grabs a clean kitchen porter top (he likes the snap buttons and fuck anyone who says he should wear a chef jacket), pulls on his black pants, his army surplus boots that are missing eye holes at the top and grabs his knife roll. It’s going to be a good day.

Four hours later it’s not a good day.

“Lewis!!! Where the fuck is Lewis?” Franko screams over the clatter of pans, the dishes being tossed at the sink and the espresso machine whining as it churns out another cup of black magic. Clint sympathises with it. He’s been churning out panini sandwiches for the last three hours with no end in sight. Grilled veg and goat cheese, parma ham and manchego, pesto and chicken, rinse and repeat. He’s got a few new oil burns on his hands from reaching too quickly to grab fresh fries but besides that, the shit factor of the day has nothing to do with him. No, today is front of house’s turn, a horrible combination of people calling in sick and the credit card machine crashing. The last time he’d looked out, he’d seen Darcy trying to teach the rest of the waiting staff how to use an old school carbon copy machine huddled behind the bar. He’d given her his best shit eating grin and a thumbs up. She’d given him the finger and soda water next time he’d asked for a coke. He really, really liked Darcy.

If the problems had stayed with the front of house then that would have been fine, but the trickle down effect meant that lunch had turned into a drawn out affair. People angry that it was taking them an hour to get pasta or a sandwich because the ordering system was down. People angry that the waitresses were trying to learn one set of machines and get another one to work instead of bringing them drinks. The Kitchen angry that food wasn’t going out. Franko angry at all of the above. 

Clint liked to think he could be a little ocean of calm in all this, but he felt his blood pressure raising along with the rest of them. His side salads kept wilting under the lights. His side soups got skin on the top from waiting. Bruce’s panini bread was drying out. Bruce’s panini bread was drying out, for fuck sake. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I was just getting the last order in. What table?” Darcy moved in like a whirlwind, her eyes scanning the front of house copies on her side of the pass. 

“We don’t want more fucking orders, we want these ones out. No more orders until this pass is clear? Yes?” Franko was screaming at her from the grill station, not even looking up.

“Yes, Chef. What order to go out, Chef?” Clint winced and felt himself curl protectively inwards. The rage that washed over the kitchen wasn’t directed at him but that didn’t change the fact that it made his heart thump faster, made him think of a childhood hiding behind doors. He dimly heard Darcy reply, head the door swing open and shut, and then felt the room cool off. The lid of the pressure cooker he worked in had been removed. Last orders, Darcy had said. He glanced over his shoulder at the pass and saw it mostly clear.

“Last orders! One pasta special, two panini, one chicken, one veggie, two soup sides, one moules.”

“Yes Chef!” Clint answered, as much a part of the machine as the rest of them. He looked over again at the half broken espresso maker, watched as a waitress tried to coax one more cup out of it for the shift.

“One more baby, one more and you can have a break.” She crooned to it. Clint felt more of a sympathetic connection to it than anyone else around him. Two panini, two soup vs. one capuchinno. He could do better than the espresso machine.

 

He finds Darcy sitting outside on a milk crate, hidden in the sun trap behind the dumpster and sobbing. 

“Ah shit Darcy, don’t take it so bad. You did a good job.” She shuffles over and he sits down beside her. They’re not good enough friends that he feels like he can hug her, but he does the next best thing and offers her some of the leftover bread and butter he’s brought out. She smiles, hiccups, and takes a piece.

“Thanks. I know that Franko doesn’t mean it, but god it just gets to me sometimes. Somedays I just don’t think that I can win.” Clint nods, takes a bit of the bread and chews in companionable silence. He has two hours off instead of his normal three and he wants nothing more than to sleep in the dry stores room after the night before. He should just pat her on the back and tell her that’s this is what’s it like. That’s the nature of the beast and if you can’t stand the heat you should get out of the kitchen. The usual crap that people say when they’re feeling all smug and superior because they managed to avoid the worst of a bad shift.

“Do you want to come tea shopping with me?” Clint Barton is not a normal person. He doesn’t say the usual crap to people because he had it said to him over and over again and he knows what it feels like to have smug bastards peck away at you like a pigeon over some bread. Darcy laughs at him and he feels a little bit of civility return to the world. Laughing is hands down better than crying.

“Sure. What kind of tea are you looking for?”

“Camomile. The good shit, not stuff in a bag.” He’s going to save the crazy Japanese flowering stuff for a special occasion, but he has his share of the tips from today burning a hole in his pocket and Darcy seems like the type of girl who knows strange tea shops.

“Yeah, I know a place. Ten minutes to get changed and let me do my makeup?” He stands and helps haul her to her feet.

“Yeah, sure. Gotta be quick though, I’m working a double.” It’s her turn to wince now, her face following through to sympathetic. She reaches over and pulls him into a hug, pressing herself against him. He can’t help but lean back, let her warmth on his front and the sun on his back cocoon him for a minute. He’s missed having friends, having contact like this. “I probably smell horrible.” He mumbles into her hair. She laughs again and pulls away.

“Ten minutes, Barton. And don’t think I’m not going to ask you who the tea is for the entire way to the shop.” He’s pleased to see the spring back in her step, the little bounce the always has when she’s happy and can’t decide if she should walk or run or skip as she turns to walk away “Oh hey, did you hear about what happened at Moderna? Jesus fucking Christ!”

It seems like a lifetime ago, Clint thinks, but what happened at Moderna was just the night before. Phil is probably there, selling the equipment so he can pay people cash as last wages. Clint wonders if he’s heard about Nick yet. He could swing by, maybe, if the tea place isn’t that far away or in that direction. 

“Clint?” Darcy is in front of him again, worried. He raises a smile for her.

“Old friends, I hope they’re doing ok today.”

“Oh god, that was insensitive. I’m sorry! Look, if you want...” Clint flails at her, the international sign for Nah, It’s cool, but she still doesn’t look convinced.

“I’d just be in the way.”

“If you’re sure?” He looks at his watch.

“You only have six minutes left.” She sticks her tongue out at him and walks off. He didn’t lie, he tells himself. If he went to Moderna today he would be in the way. He’ll swing by Phil’s on his way home, see if a light in still on and bring him some kitchen leftovers if anything good comes back.

It’s the best he can offer.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for no update last week. I was away in the land of no internet for a holiday and time just sort of slipped by. More characters coming in the next chapter, I promise!

It’s close to midnight when Clint finishes his shift, bone weary but happy. He’s pretty sure he’s figured out the salad dressing on the walnut, pear and blue cheese salad and no one got stabbed. After the night before it seems like a win. 

He’d stood in front of his locker for ten minutes, the dried camomile flowers in a clear bag sat on the shelf in his locker like a proverbial elephant. In the end he’d taken a chance, put them and a note gushing about bread in a takeaway bag, written Banner on the front in large black letters and stuck it to the front of what he hoped was the right locker. He was running on coffee and stress and yes, he was pretty sure he sounded like a teenage girl in the note but fuck it. Fuck it all. 

He took the metro, struggling to keep his eyes open the six stops to Phil’s. It would have been simple to stay on the line back to his room, collapse into bed for six hours, but he owed Phil both literally and metaphorically. There was a light on so he climbed the fire escape and knocked.

“Hey. Are you drunk?” he asked as the door opened in front of him. Phil was wobbling, but then again Clint was pretty sure he himself had been wobbling for the last hour. Phil narrowed his eyes at him, but leaned against the door frame so Clint could shuffle past.

“It’s my apartment.” Phil replied in a tone that suggested criticism would not be well received. That was ok. Clint could understand.

“Yeah, it’s your apartment.” Clint agreed, remembering how much he appreciated people being amicable to his ridiculous statements. Phil nudged him towards the couch with his foot and Clint let himself be maneuvered until they were sat on each end, empty wine bottles of a quite good vintage nesting between them. Amicable, Clint thought as they sat in silence, the television playing low and giving off the only light besides a small lamp. 

“I’m sorry you came over,” Phil blurted, looking down at the array at his feet. “No, that’s not right. I’m sorry I didn’t stop drinking a few hours ago. I would have, if I hadn’t been drinking and...” Phil’s voice trailed off and he shrugged, tilting his head until it rested against the back of the couch. 

“It’s ok, Phil. I get it. Shitty day?”

“The fucking worst. Fired everyone, sold everything that wasn’t nailed down, stole some good stuff from the cellar and no one has called.”

“And now you feel like you want to puke?”

“And now I feel like I want to puke,” Phil confirmed. 

Clint untangled his feet and stood up. “Well, it’s a good thing I brought mint tea then. It’s supposed to be good for settling stomachs.” He hadn’t had a chance to check out Phil’s kitchen before, the little alcove with a built in bench seat table and room for one person to cook for one person. It was tidy, at least, but poorly stocked. It was clearly the kitchen of someone who liked the idea of cooking but didn’t have time for it, or, had access to some of the best food in New York at work. Clint smiled at the little aloe plant lurking on top of the fridge and the I *heart* Bacon magnet as he pulled down a small pot and put water on to boil.

“Did you get the flowering stuff for Banner?” Phil asked from the living room.

“Nope, chamomile. Saving the big guns for later. This girl from work took me a tea place though and they have it in stock.”

“You should have started big. What if he died tonight and you had just given him the chamomile? You would have regretted it,” Phil replied somewhat shakily from the living room. Clint hadn’t thought much about Phil and Nick. He’d thought a lot about Phil and he’d thought a bit about Nick, but as an entity beyond terrifyingly well matched business partners he had always assumed nothing. At the CIA they had all woven in and out of each others days and it had been so difficult to tell where casual flirting ended. After that, well, Phil and Nick and Tasha were destined for great things. Amazing things. He was just a guy who was ok at running a station when the orders piled up, drunk or high or so damn strung out he couldn’t read the orders or remember where he lived. He hadn’t been surprised when Phil and Nick had quietly cut the connections a few years back, hadn’t been surprised that Tasha had left a note on his bedside table telling him that she’d had enough of watching him burn.

“Your water is boiling.” Clint didn’t startle at Phil standing behind him, peering over his shoulder, but he took in a big breath and let the exhale drag him back to now. Tasha was in Russia, Nick was in the hospital and Phil was resting his chin on Clint’s shoulder. “And you haven’t answered my question,” Phil finished. Clint turned the heat off and put in a few tablespoons of the dried buds.

“You’re drunk,” Clint said softly, stirring the buds just to give himself something to do. “But that’s ok. That’s something I can deal with.” He strained the buds through a small hole colander, added some cold water and shoved a mug into Phil’s hand.

Phil didn’t say a word, just sipped the tea, leaning against his sink, gently swirling the cup. He didn’t say anything when Clint replaced the mug in his hand with a water bottle, gently chided him to changing out of his rumpled work clothes, crawled into bed and curled up under the blankets. He didn’t need to say words when he fastened his hand around Clint’s wrist, holding gentle but firm, but said them anyways. “I’m scared,” he said quietly. “I’m scared that he’s dead and no one knows to tell me.” 

Clint sighed and curled next to him. It’s a cold night, Clint told himself as pulled the patchwork comforter over his shoulder and let himself mirror Phil, their knees knock gently against each other. It’s a cold night and he’s my friend and he’s scared, nothing more. In that moment Clint wanted nothing more than to tell Phil they would call, of course they would call, Nick’s family aren’t idiots.

“I can’t lie. That was a fucking horrible gash on his head. But he’s the most stubborn bastard I’ve ever met, and I don’t think it’ll kill him. I think he’s going to wake up pretty soon and your phone is going to ring and he’s going to be so pissed off that vein in his head is going to start throbbing.” Phil laughed a little at that, and Clint couldn’t help but laughing as well. Nick Fury, ex Army cook, had taken their CIA instructors for a ride. Clint knew they both remembered the day on the souffle section, in the training restaurant, when inevitably one of the a la minute souffles hadn’t risen to the occasion. Nick had stood there, calmly taking the verbal assault from Chef, only to turn around when the diatribe had ended to look at the offending souffle and deliver five minutes of the choicest words Clint had ever heard.

“What the fuck was that about?” Clint had asked him, hurrying behind with a mushroom and brandy sauce for the pork.

“Souffle has to learn it works for me and the shit, it always rolls down,” Nick had replied, carefully preparing another ramekin. Not a single one had fallen after that. 

“I’m sorry, Clint, second night in a row you’re not making it home because of me.” Phil’s voice again brought him back to the present, and not for the first time Clint wondered if his mind had wandered to the past so much before the drugs. No, he thought. Before the drugs, the past had been the present his mind wandered back to, a time full of potential. Phil was looking at him still, a slight frown on his brow, and Clint let his mind focus on the present again.

“It’s not really a home. Just a room with a bed and a suitcase. I don’t mind where I sleep.” Phil was still frowning though.

“We’re going to sort this out, Clint.”

“Sure we are. But tomorrow. After sleeping, and lots of water, and maybe an omelette.” Phil frowned a little less when he shut his eyes, a quiet huff of agreement escaping before he fell into the kind of sleep only a bottle of red could bring him to. Clint watched the shadows formed by the headlights of cars passing on the street below for a few minutes, then reached over and felt for Phil’s pulse on his neck. He found the steady beat of it reassuring, reminding him that Phil would sleep it all off and be back to the solid person he was tomorrow. If Clint fell asleep with his hand resting there, well, he was pretty sure one of them would move before the morning.


End file.
